A Rainy Night in Georgia
by chiefraz
Summary: Its a rainy night, there's angst, anger and 70's soul.


A Rainy Night in Georgia

It's been raining a lot here in the Northeast lately, giving me a chance to think too much about my overgrown lawn and the job that's really starting to get me down. I wanna thank those people who have taken the time to read my old stores and email with your kind comments. You've given me the kick in the cortex that I've needed for a while. And to my dearest Terror Cotta who not only betaed but reminded me that you don't need a pencil to draw a picture when words are so much better.

So let's re-join our boys on their journey; light up a 'cowboy killer', crack a cold one and let the tears of heaven fall as we check in on our favorite priest and his red headed lover.

"_I feel like it's rainin all over the world_..." It must have been Black Velvet 70s night at the local radio station because after we rode that Midnight Train to Georgia, by way of Funky Town, Brook Benton's voice came drifting from the beat up little speakers filling our hotel room with the light hiss of static soul, melancholy and a wailing of memories that only came to head in loneliness and thunder storms. Yeah, it was raining and this of course meant pissy poor rotten luck for me, cuz my favorite corn hole became a nookie free zone.

Sanzo had locked himself away with three packs of cigarettes, a pint of bourbon and settled in for an evening of music and misery while I was left in the hallway smokeless to cuss out the weather man and lack of a bed warmer.

"I'll shack up with some broad tonight!" I hollered in frustration bruising my knuckles on the solid oak door. "Maybe that waitress at the tavern we stopped at tonight, the brunette with the big knockers. She looked like she could use some of Sha Goyjo's special brand of lovin'!"

Silence.

"Bet she'll fuck me bowlegged."

"T'ch. Better her than me," a sarcastic reply slipped through the key hole. "Besides I wouldn't bet on it as you didn't lay the ground work with any lame ass come ons at dinner. She must'a looked at the four of us and seen a priest, his butt monkey, a prissy clean freak and yuki boy in tow."

"I ain't no yuki faggot!" The words automatically jumped out of my mouth without any conscious thought behind them.

Then for the first time since the initial patter of rain and the step off of the musical parade from the decade that made polyester cool and Jimmy Carter president, there came a third and completely unexpected sound - a loud snort I could almost call a laugh or more likely the cynical wind up for a slew of knife-like precision pitched insults that would give Jeter or Matsui a case of the fast ball envy. (Hey, the ball game was on earlier-Yanks creamed the Marlins- my bookie will be screaming bloody murder and applying for food stamps after I get done collecting yeeeeee haaaaaaaaaa). I could hear the floor boards creak with the weight of footfall then the sound of a body falling back against the door. "Really? That wasn't you reenacting the missionary stories all very authentically in the missionary position last night? Could have fooled me."

"Sanzo, it's not like that." I was trying to figure out how to backpeddle my way out of this one. Part of me was doing mental backflips that something had gotten through that thick Blondes' head to rouse his intellectual need to win an argument or at the very least fill me full of lead. The other half was in total macho overload confusion between my words and actions of the previous night. Or better yet, the previous months of having that damn priest in my bed. Okay okay, years of doing dudes, happy now? Pulling myself up a hunk of floor, I sat and tried to come up with the right thing to say that wouldn't get me shot or worse without a lover.

"Then what is it?" The sarcasm was edged in hurt, meaning Sanzo must have doused the lights and was standing there in the dark where no one could see him not even himself. "Since when does fucking a man mean you're straight?"

"_How many times I wondered_

_It still comes out the same_

_No matter how you at it or think of it_

_Its life and you just got to play the game."_  
"Shut up Brook." I muttered. Playing games was what I was good at - poker, mah jongg, dice - anything that brought me money, drinks or women. So how do I play this? Do the games stop and the truth suffice? Is it time to think about what I really am instead of the concept of 'any old orifice will do' in the shadows while the macho man lives in the light? "Sanzo maybe we should talk about this when you're feeling more..."

"Why? Are you tired of porking a priest and want to go back to your Pretty Hakkai?"

"WHAT?" In a flash my fist found itself buried in oak splinters, "Oh here we go. So that's it? The minute the rain comes down you start thinking that its pity-fuck time. Oh happy, happy day. Hakkai wants to jump my bones just to keep away the memories of Kanan and 1000 dead youki. Wow, there's a real turn on!"

"Used to be okay by you." The rasp of a lighter being struck and the deep inhale of nicotine cut short the observation.

"The key word here, Asshole, is 'used to'. Past tense." Now I was getting wound up for the cutting edge come-back. "Great. Just great. The two of you are a goddamn pair of psycho bitches! I swear to Christ, Buddha, Vishnu or insert your favorite deity name here. Hakkai only wants me when its time to forget and you toss me away when it's time to remember. That's it, call me when the sun comes up or we blow this burg. I'm outta here."

Getting up and nursing my bloodied hand, I turn to stomp down the hall when the sound of a dead bolt (or was it the click of pistol hammer being pulled back?) brought me up short. "Oooooo, foreplay with the banishing gun, kinky."

His voice quivered with barely contained emotion. "One chance. Come in, or keep walking and get the hell out of my life."

Sanzo did know me by now. The 31st Sanzo of China, the Select of Buddha himself (I just love saying that) even knew that rain and depression wouldn't keep me away. Pushing the door open just enough to slip through into the safety of darkness, arms cold with fear and lips hot with anger. We fell into that place where no one could see us, not even ourselves.

"_Oh, have you ver been lonely, people?_

_And you feel it was rainin all over this man's world_"

Rainy Night in Georgia-written by Tony Joe White and recorded by Brook Benton in 1970

Midnight Train to Georgia-written by Jim Weatherly and recorded by Gladys Knight the Pips in 1973

Funky Town- written by Steven Greenberg and recorded in 1979 by Lipps, Inc


End file.
